Hands That Give Life
by by-nina
Summary: "It'll only be a year. Just a year of recovery, and hopefully, I'll be able to continue doing that." Resembool's best automail engineer meets Leiden's best Auto Memory Doll.


_A/N: I_ was _working on uploading my Royai Week pieces here, and finishing the prologue of_ something _(a multichapter, canon-divergent AU thing) with hopes of posting it this weekend, but then this place after the main events of FMA(B) and at some point in VE, assuming that's how the timelines work here LMAO. Y'all have a wonderful day!_

* * *

 _Dear Ed,_

 _Fall is beginning in Resembool. I've been looking forward to it, as always._ _Our_ _tree in_ _the_ _backyard is looking healthy;_ _the apples should be good enough for_ _pies again soon._

 _Elicia and Miss Gracia have paid a visit, and it was so nice having them over for a change, rather than going to Central myself. Granny liked the company, and the Hugheses loved the countryside, so it was a good_ _time for everyone_ _. I've told them t_ _o visit again when you return_ _—you really need to see how much Elicia has grown!_

 _The people are talking about Ishval a lot these days. It seems the restoration is going well under General Mustang. I've heard—_

The letter Winry rehearses in her head is forgotten for a moment as she catches a familiar glint in the hands of the young woman by her bedside, revealed from beneath a pair of brown leather gloves that the woman pulls off with her teeth. Beautiful, solid, strong, familiar. Winry watches in awe as the young woman flexes her automail fingers with a _click_ , twists her wrists, and pauses as she finds something that she doesn't like. The woman rolls up her sleeves. Slowly, carefully, she adjusts the screws in her elbows.

The young woman pauses, taking notice of Winry's stare. She looks up with an unreadable expression. "Do my hands bother you, Miss Winry?"

"Oh, no, not at all, Violet!" Winry says quickly, embarrassed. "Forgive me for staring."

Violet brings up a free hand in salute. "Of course."

She resumes work on her elbow, her movement precise, more delicate than her fingers appear to be. Winry had heard of Violet by the many letters, books, and other pieces of literature she had beautifully written on behalf of many others who could not write. Stories of Violet's supposed military career in Leiden, her home country, also followed close behind. Neither of these things evoke a wistful wonder in Winry as much as Violet's mechanical limbs.

"You have very beautiful automail," says Winry, unable to stop herself. "Who made those arms for you?"

Violet begins feeding paper into the typewriter she had set on a little table. "These arms were created by a very skilled smith in the military, in place of my arms. I lost both of my real arms in the Battle of Intense."

"I see. You were a member of the military, weren't you?"

"Yes. I have left the military since the end of the war in our country. The CH Postal Company is my only affiliation now."

As Violet finishes preparing the paper, Winry smiles. "You remind me of someone who had an arm just like yours. He used to be in the military, too. His arm was nowhere near as beautiful as those, but I always did the best I could."

For the first time, a ripple of something—curiosity—breaks through Violet's blank face. She sets her hands on her lap and turns to Winry. "Did you make an arm like this, Miss Winry?"

The smile reaches Winry's eyes, which turn bright as she nods. "An arm, and a leg. I've made many here and in Rush Valley for all sorts of people needing all sorts of replacements or additions to their bodies. Making automail has been our family business for generations, you see, so I worked hard to get better over the years."

She looks now at her hands resting on either side of her, on top of her blanket. It's a curious irony to see her hands bandaged, unmoving, numb. They are as different as they could be from the hands she had gotten used to working with all her life. Each day since her accident, they have looked increasingly distant, almost unfamiliar, but perhaps still not as unfamiliar as they will soon be.

In less than a day, gone. In a few weeks, permanently replaced with steel.

"It'll only be a year." Her voice has dropped to nearly a whisper; she is talking to herself more now. "Just a year of recovery, and hopefully, I'll be able to continue doing that."

A familiar weight settles on top of her arm. She looks up at Violet, who rests her hands on the bandages; though Violet's face is still mostly passive, her eyes fill with emotion and reverence as she looks at Winry. She bows her head a little.

"I would like to thank you, Miss Winry. You're a very good person for using your skill to create arms and legs for people like me. It is because of a person like you that I was able to continue living life and help others with my new hands. I am sure that when you recover, your hands will continue to give life to other people. Thank you very much."

Violet rises, then curtsies low. Something catches in Winry's throat, or her breath leaves her—she isn't sure how to describe what she feels as, in her mind, Ed's soothing voice bleeds into Violet's, echoing the same words from many years ago. The feeling of his automail hand around hers accompanies the words. Suddenly, she is more thankful than she ever was that she hadn't fired the gun that day.

Winry comes out of her reverie and back into the present, left with a warm feeling in her chest and a fond appreciation for her grateful company. She manages to find her voice. "Thank you, Violet."

A small smile appears on Violet's lips, and she returns to her seat before the typewriter. She flexes her fingers, then positions them above the keys. "Shall we begin, Miss Winry?"


End file.
